


pound of flesh

by skorpsion



Category: DragonFable (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skorpsion/pseuds/skorpsion
Summary: Forbidden magic is often too high of a cost to pay. (Fleshweaver!Hero)





	pound of flesh

Every last thought, tinkling down from the spaces in my head. Crystallized like filigree: perfectly preserved, utterly untouchable. My breath is of frost, frozen and pale blue, reminiscent of a last meal. A thought, clearer and brighter than all the others, bubbles up to the forefront of my mind.

A memory of warmth found in cold, of something almost like camaraderie, tasting like snow and betrayal—gone already, in the last flakes of my breath. The thought joins the others, fragile crystal all too unwilling to break.

I am a supplicant in prayer. The flames roar around me, threaten to consume me. I stay still and silent, in knowledge that I am promised to a greater cause.

The sky illuminant. Sacrifice is nothing but deserved tribute to a greater being, and I stand in awe at his presence. My baptism encroaches, shrouded in tongues of flame. Too bright to look at, too dark to see, I await his order without complaint. To beg is to invite impurity, and the purity nestled deep inside my innards waits in silence. Useless are my own hands, I accept his command as my own.

I breathe out, and his will moves into me, replacing now-useless breath. I am only a vessel, ready to do as he desires.

Something sits heavy in my gut, colder than despair and heavier than sorrow, but without complaint. Ready to be hollowed out and molded into the shape of his need.

He whispers.

His hand, that which determines fate, tenses. It runs me through. Flexes and twists past skin and passing deep into my viscera. The squelch of mortal flesh, blooming crimson between his fingers and dribbling down to the heat-scorched floor. My mortality coils and rebels against the concept of its removal, but without even a twitch, I stay still as he commands. His hand twists around my soul, and with it, shifts my flesh.

The shape of my existence shifts, and with it, the entire world.  For only a single moment, my soul clear and gossamer as spun glass, my every inner working bare to the eye to see, open and accepting of him, beholden to all. Hanging suspended between materia and spirit, I exist between myself and him, the barrier of being shattered. The crystal thoughts in my mind cling for only a second before falling away, tinkling and crashing down where his will does not reach. For a single moment, my every truth bared to myself, the world around me, the ice-cold weight settled in my imaginary stomach, and that moment is just long enough for me to  _ scream. _

I feel, but without pain. I scream, but without voice. The cords of red inside me, already half ensouled, turn inside out. Whatever is left of my being shrieks, turned from aether to a new state entirely, soul turned to thread into meat. I am split and entwined into myself, spirit into flesh and flesh into spirit. His hand moves, and with it, myself. With a twist, a caress, my agonized soul meets again painless flesh, and I am myself.

Something changes, something fundamental, and ignites within my hollow body, burning cold and eternal. A feeling more felt than known, the unseen flame fills up the empty space where I once kept viscera and the trappings of mortal flesh. Bone, spirit, and flesh woven into an amalgam that encapsulates all, I am reborn by his will. The flicker of flame replacing the beating of a heart, my threads snap together into the body that meets his demands.

I am raw with the refuse of birth, but his will is my command, and the threads of myself spin into new shapes, unfamiliar ones. Without any pain at all, his hands puppet the strings of my new body, twining threads around his fingers.

"You are mine."

Without breath, I cannot answer him. I am his, and he uses me as he wishes.

Raw and willing, my flesh knits around his hands. It forms into a familiar shape, hollow and open, and molds around his unfamiliar movements. The flame filling my hollow ribcage flares to life, then drops downwards, malleable as my flesh under his will.

"Mine."

His fingers twine, enclosing the flame, and a spark jolts through every one of my threads—not pain, not discomfort, only pure intensity. The flame refuses to burn his hands, as they deftly weave around and inside me. It sends sparks of not-pain where he works, in the space between my legs. Pain refuses to come, and in its place, defilement creeps through my being. Pleasure mingled with shame, joy, and every feeling other than pain.

"No," I whisper, unable to draw the breath to cry out.

The sparks crawl through me, and he acts as is his right. He makes a plaything of my body, contorting it and weaving it into something new, filling every hollow space in my flesh with fire and his own fingers. Intensity and fire floods my body, every sensation but pain, and I writhe, along with the threads he weaves into new shapes. It fills me even as I try to shrink away from my own self, reaching into every last place I once believed sacred. Something inside me recoils, some pure thing inside me that hadn't yet succumbed to his will, and he notices.

He reaches deeper, threads contorting around his grasping hands, and they take hold of something deeper than I'd ever suspected. The close tight, squeezing down and for a moment, a splintered fraction of a single moment—

_ the flame flickers _

—I come to, screaming voicelessly, every sensation but pain flooding me. My flesh is twisting around his form, yearning to be completed, pulsing with need and ecstasy and horror all at once. He controls me, in body and soul, a control he continues to exert.

Something rises in my throat, burning like a scream. He doesn't open my mouth though, just keeps stoking the fire inside, the flame roaring inside me and ready to erupt at any moment he allows it. Under his hold, it bucks, but he refuses to lend it freedom. It threatens to strangle me, to curl around threads and squeeze tighter and tighter until there's nothing left, but my ownership is held by him, and him alone. It burns with desire to be free, swallowed down as it was, but held fast in place by his will. Just as I am, and the taste spills bitter over my teeth.

If I could breathe, just take a single breath to open my lungs and quench the flame, it would be enough. Every thought in my mind slips away and shatters into raw sensation, sparking the oversensitive threads of my being. Coiled around his hands twined between his fingers, every caress makes pleasure and disgust spark down my body. I shudder, although it is only by his desire to see me do so. I am open for him, and he caresses the fire inside me in a way that makes my threads spark with pleasure, but makes that pure corner of my being retch. He strokes my flesh, and molds it to twitch against his hands, push back against his movements, all the while stoking the flame trapped inside me. Sensation thrums along every last fiber of my being, newly born yet immediately ignited.

It's too much, it's always been too much, and my breaking point is already a thing of distant memory when he finally gives me respite. His hands twist my threads around one last time, and he releases me. The hold around my being is gone, and when he stops his manipulations, I collapse. Boneless, meaningless, like a puppet with no strings at all. My threads pulled and toyed with almost to breaking point, now in a heap at his feet. Without his will, I do not act.

He commands me one last time, and breath fills my hollow chest at last.

It isn't what I wanted.


End file.
